Chapter 15 Lily
LILY
The sunlight hits the room before I’m ready for it. Pale and gold, spilling across the tangled sheets, across the bruises blooming on my hips like proof.
Every inch of my body aches—but in that good, heavy way that makes me want to smile against the soreness.
My thighs are tender. My lips still feel bruised.
Even my ribs ache a little from how hard I laughed when he carried me off the path last night.
It’s the kind of ache that makes me want to stay here forever, inside this stretch of time where everything feels easy and slow and full of him.
Every part of me feels used and worshipped, marked by him in ways that make my heart stumble when I move. My body is sore, deliciously so, the kind of ache that feels like memory.
I slide out of bed, wincing when my toes hit the cool tile.
The villa is quiet except for the distant sound of waves and the low hum of the morning wind through the palms. My legs wobble in protest, so I make my way to the bathroom, turn on the tap, and watch as the tub fills with warm water.
Steam rises in soft ribbons. The surface catches the sunlight and turns it to liquid rose gold as I pour in some rose oil and epsom salt into the water.
When I sink in, the heat wraps around me like a sigh. The heat bites at first, then spreads, slow and consuming. My muscles loosen. My breath evens. I slide lower until the water kisses my chin and the world goes quiet.
For the first time in years, there’s no noise in my head. No alarms. No lists. No fear of what comes next. Just this — warmth, silence, and the ghost of his hands still mapped over my skin.
I rest my head against the porcelain edge, closing my eyes, letting the scent of rose oil and saltwater blur together.
Somewhere beyond the open balcony, waves crash against the rocks.
The sound melts into the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I think of last night — the way he said my name like it was something holy, the rough scrape of his jaw against my throat.
I open my eyes and take a peak at my body, as I trail my fingers through the water, watching it ripple over my knees, over the faint bruises blooming on my thighs.
They’re proof. Proof that he’s real. That last night happened.
That Aleksandr Petrov—the man who’s always been untouchable, untamable—touched me like I was the only thing that could quiet him.
And when he held me, fuck, it was like he wasn’t sure I was real.
Like he was afraid I’d vanish if he blinked.
I’m not completely sure he’s real either.
A part of me feels like I am going to wake back up in my shitty New York apartment and this would have been some really good and fucked up trick my mind played on itself.
The sound of the villa door closing breaks the quiet.
Heavy footsteps echo through the hall, steady, familiar.
He’s back. I can hear the faint shuffle of him kicking off his shoes, the low creak of the floorboards under his weight as he moves through the room, probably wiping sweat from his brow, probably scanning the space for me.
A few seconds later, he finds me.
“Well aren’t I lucky?” Aleksandr hums, his knowing smirk making him even sexier.
When I look up, Aleksandr stands framed in the morning light, leaning against the bathroom door frame.
Sweat-damp from a run, shirt clinging to his chest, breath still sharp from the cold.
His hair’s a mess, sticking to his forehead, and somehow he looks even more dangerous like this: unguarded, human.
“Mmmhmm,” I hum, pulling my knees to my chest. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Well,” he says, pushing off of the door frame and walking over to me. “I always get ideas looking at you.”
“I bet,” I murmur, a slick smile on my face. “When I woke up you were gone.”
“You normally aren't awake this early,” he says, his voice rough. “I went on my run while I waited for you. Did my leaving wake you up?”
“No, I was sore,” I murmur, tracing a lazy circle in the water. “Figured I should try to fix what you broke.”
That gets a low chuckle from him, the kind that rumbles in his chest and sends a shiver up my spine. “You’re not broken, moya lyubov. Just new at this.”
I roll my eyes, though the smile betrays me. “Oh, so now it’s my fault?”
“Never, I love that about you.”
He crosses the small space between us, the air seeming to tighten as he moves.
The heat from his body reaches me before his hands do.
He leans down, bracing one hand on the rim of the tub, and presses his lips to my forehead.
The kiss is warm and lingering, the kind that makes the rest of the room disappear.
“You should’ve waited for me,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Why? So, you could make things worse?” I tease. “No thank you.”
He huffs out a laugh, tilting my chin up to him. “You know I only make things better, Moya.”
My breath catches, the water suddenly too hot against my skin as he brushes his lips against mine, soft and fleeting.
Then—he straightens, peels off his damp running shorts, and steps closer to the tub.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs as he slides into the water with me.
The water shifts around us, gentle waves lapping at the porcelain as Aleksandr settles behind me. His knees brush my hips, and the faint sound of his exhale fills the quiet. The heat of him seeps through the water until I can’t tell where warmth ends and he begins.
For a while, neither of us speak. His hands rest on the rim of the tub, one on either side of me, caging me in without pressure. I can feel the steady beat of his heart through my back, slower now, syncing with mine.
“Come here,” he says, voice soft.
I lean back until my shoulders rest against his chest. He reaches for the small glass bottle beside the tub, uncaps it, and pours a thin stream of shampoo into his palm. The scent of rose and cedarwood rises between us as his fingers slide into my hair, slow and careful.
His touch isn’t demanding; it’s patient. He works through the tangles with gentle strokes, fingertips tracing my scalp until my whole body melts under the rhythm.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re still tense.”
“Hard not to be when the last time you touched me I forgot how to think,” I whisper.
That earns a quiet chuckle that vibrates against my spine. “Then I’m doing something right.”
He tips a cup of warm water over my hair, letting it cascade down my neck. It’s sensual in a way that has nothing to do with lust — just him taking care of me, his presence anchoring every part that still trembles from the night before.
“This,” I say, voice small as I lean into his touch, “is what marriage should be. You, me, mornings like this. No rush. No noise.”
Aleksandr hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my back. “If that’s what you want,” he says, rinsing the soap from my hair with another careful pour of water, “then you’ll have it.”
I smile faintly, eyes closing as the lather slips away. “Is there anything you want in marriage?”
He pauses, considering, then replies with infuriating calm. “Six kids.”
My eyes snap open, and I twist slightly to look at him. “Six?!”
“Five,” he counters smoothly, lips twitching.
“One,” I shoot back.
“Four.”
“Three?”
“Three pregnancies,” he says, lowering his mouth toward my ear, “with one being twins.”
I laugh, swatting at his arm. “You can’t control that!”
He only arches a brow. “Lily.”
The way he says my name—low, amused, patient—undoes me. “Okay,” I sigh dramatically, playing along. “Three pregnancies, but only if you build me a library in your house.”
“Already in construction,” he replies without missing a beat, his voice a warm murmur.
“Really?” I ask, turning my head enough to meet his eyes.
“I know my wife,” he says simply, pressing a light kiss to the crown of my wet hair.
I laugh again, softer this time. “Wait—four kids means no quiet mornings.”
“I’ll make time for it,” he promises, brushing his thumb along my shoulder. “Nik owes me hours of babysitting.”
I settle deeper between Aleksandr’s thighs, the water lapping gently against our skin.
I never thought about kids before, but now the image sneaks in uninvited — a row of little Aleksandrs with matching scowls and impossible gray eyes, marching in tiny formation.
The thought makes me laugh under my breath.
Their serious little faces. Their stubbornness.
The sparkle in their eyes when they get excited.
They’ll be perfect if they’re anything like him.
For a flicker of a moment, though, something twists beneath the warmth.
I remember the silence of my father’s house after he died — the way the walls seemed to echo with his absence.
I remember learning too young that safety can vanish overnight, that the people meant to protect you can be gone before you even understand what the word safe means.
Since then, I never imagined I’d have a family again.
I built my life around the idea that I’d have to carry myself, feed myself, protect myself.
It became muscle memory — the constant, quiet hum of survival.
And now here I am, sitting in a sunlit bath, thinking about children with a man who makes the world feel less sharp. It feels impossible. It feels dangerous. It feels… like hope.
“Okay, so I’ll have to let Nadi know I’m going to be on maternity leave soon,” I whisper, teasing, and he pulls me back flat against his chest with a low grunt that sounds a lot like a warning.
“Since I assume we’re starting sooner rather than later,” I add, unable to hide my grin.
“You don’t have to worry about working anymore, Lils,” he whispers into the curve of my neck. His breath is warm against my skin, his tone softer than I expect.
“What?” I turn my head slightly, trying to see his expression, but he just trails a wet fingertip down my arm.
“You can do anything,” he says quietly. “Be a stay-at-home wife. Be a professional reader. Start an editing company. Anything.”
I shift in the water, his words wrapping around me in a way I can’t quite escape. “You say that like I’m supposed to stop living the life I built before you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, full and steady, until I feel him exhale against my shoulder.
“I just want to give you the kind of life you never thought you could have,” he says at last, voice rougher now. “All those years we weren’t together… I owe you more than I can give. I missed too much.”
I glance down at our joined hands, his larger one covering mine, our fingers wrinkled from the heat. “You don’t owe me anything,” I say softly. “We both missed time. That’s different.”
His hand tightens around mine. “It’s not different to me,” he murmurs. “You were always there — waiting, surviving, working — while I was out building walls so high you couldn’t reach me. I don’t get those years back. But I can make sure the ones ahead are better.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t have to make up for anything, Aleksandr.”
“I do,” he says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. “Every morning you wake up next to me, I’m making up for it. Every laugh. Every time you tell me you’re happy. That’s me trying to give you back what you lost.”
I tilt my head to look at him, water slipping down between us. “You’re not supposed to fix me,” I whisper. “You’re just supposed to be here.”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes softened but unreadable. “Then let me do both,” he says, voice low, steady. “Let me be here and still make it better.”
The water sways gently around us, scented with rose and salt. I close my eyes, leaning back into him until his heartbeat steadies against my spine, and instead of fighting I let go, and say, “Okay.”